


Fill Up Your Lungs (And Just Run)

by nerdwegian



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Clint at SHIELD Academy, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, SHIELD Hogwarts, Skinny Dipping, brief mention of past Clint/Natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdwegian/pseuds/nerdwegian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've seriously never gone skinny dipping, sir?"</p>
<p>Aka "Five times Clint went in the SHIELD Academy swimming pool."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fill Up Your Lungs (And Just Run)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [ralkana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana) for the beta, and also thanks to [chaneen](http://chaneen.livejournal.com/) and [torakowalski](http://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski) for being awesome cheerleaders, and for helping me unfuck the bits that got fucked with the release of CA:TWS.
> 
> **This story contains spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, as well as Agents of SHIELD past episode 1x17, "Turn, Turn, Turn."**

Clint doesn't bother making sure the entire building's empty before he leaves his hiding spot; he just waits until the footsteps of the last cadets out of the locker rooms have left the building, and then he slithers down from the rafters. He's got no doubt that someone's watching him somehow, anyway--but he's not worried about anyone stopping him. SHIELD has eyes and ears everywhere, but that doesn't necessarily mean they give a shit, at least not about a little stunt like this.

His bare feet hardly make a sound as he pads across the tiles, and he sheds his t-shirt along the way. He kicks off his pants and underwear, and then balls it all up and puts it at the back end of the diving board. For a moment, he just stands there and takes it in.

The water is ominously green-blue in the dim light. There are a few underwater bulbs making light bounce off the surface, creating shifting patterns on the dark walls and ceiling, and the room is quiet. Clint closes his eyes and breathes. His sore muscles long for the pool, for the comfort of the water, and he can already feel some of the tension drain out of him.

He dives in.

The water is warm, and Clint surfaces with barely a splash, the waves from his dive sloshing gently against the sides of the pool. He always starts by just floating on his back, staring at the ceiling and letting his muscles unwind. When he breathes in deeply, his dick pokes out of the water, and he amuses himself like that for a few minutes before flipping over and doing some lazy laps--fast enough to keep him on his toes (so to speak), but slow enough that he can just enjoy the water.

Sometimes, if the circus was in a place that facilitated it, Barney would beg off for an hour or two during the hottest days of summer, and take him to a public pool. Clint had loved swimming just as much then as he does now, but he had hated the people. So many of them, screaming and shouting and splashing and hollering. When he got older, he took to sneaking out by himself during the night. Then there were a number of years where pools were a pipe dream, along with almost everything else.

And then Nick Fury found him.

Clint still doesn't know if he'll hack it here at SHIELD Academy. Some people say he's the best marksman they've ever had. Clint doesn't need to be told twice; he knows how good he is with any projectile. Some people also say he'll be one of SHIELD's most wanted field agents. Clint thinks some people put way too much faith in him.

Still, he tries to live up to the expectations. Fury has given him a chance, and Clint doesn't want to waste it, doesn't want to let anyone down. So he works, and he trains, and he even struggles through the dumb classes they teach that have absolutely nothing to do with anything useful (Covert Infiltration? Resistance to Hypnosis and Mind Control? Psychological Manipulation? When will he ever need those?). He's confident he'll ace all their Hand to Hand Combat classes or Parachute classes or whatever (and he's got half an eye on Pilot training for later), but all this spy shit? That's not for him. Put a gun--or preferably a bow--in his hands, and he's good.

So yeah, Clint works hard, and it's tough, and sometimes it's lonely, so discovering the SHIELD pool had been one of the best things ever. It's become routine by now; he sneaks in once a week, and just swims.

It's freeing, being naked in the water, in the dim light. It helps him unwind and relax, and as he dives under the surface again, he can practically feel all the stressors of the day leave his body.

When he comes back up for air, there's a pair of black shoes in his line of sight.

Clint treads water and blinks up at the man in a suit, standing at the edge of the pool and barely avoiding the water lapping up onto the tiles.

"I don't believe you're supposed to be in here, Cadet...?"

The man's smile is bland, and he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"Barton," Clint says, even though his first instinct is to tell the guy to fuck off.

"Cadet Barton. The pool is closed. You can come back tomorrow morning." The man's eyes flicker downwards for just a second. "And please wear trunks in the pool."

Embarrassment briefly flares in Clint, but he can't cover himself well and still stay afloat. He keeps treading water, suddenly feeling oddly defensive. What does it matter if he goes for a swim now and then? The man's still looking at him expectantly, like he intends to just stand there and watch Clint get out of the pool. He's pretty hot, actually, now that Clint gets a good look at him, and Clint can't stop a wicked smile from spreading across his face.

"You could come join me," Clint says coyly, because this dude's hot, and that's apparently how Clint functions. Flirting is self-preservation. It makes people less likely to yell or use their fists, or at the very least, it tends to make them lose their train of thought.

"No, thank you, I've already had my bath today," the man deadpans.

Clint frowns and squints at the man's badge. Agent Coulson, it says. Level--fuck, Level 2. Full on agent. Clint's in so much shit.

"Listen, uh," he says, swimming to the edge of the pool and leaning on his arms, "any chance you could maybe not tell Agent Johnson about this?"

"It's a violation," Coulson says, face never changing, though he sounds vaguely amused as he looks down at Clint. "I really should be writing you up."

"Come on, man," Clint says, trying for cheeky and probably failing. "Didn't you ever do something crazy in your youth?"

That gets a reaction. Coulson's eyebrows move upwards just a hint, and his lips part a little. Clint gets the distinct feeling that for this guy, even letting that much show is unusual.

"In my--how old do you think I am?" Coulson asks.

Clint frowns and quickly realizes he's fucked up. Literally backpedaling, he kicks off and treads water again. "Hey, uh, no offense, sir, just--water in my eyes," he says, once again trying on his best charming smile, but clearly failing if Coulson's face is anything to go by.

"Your eyesight is legendary; I highly doubt it," Coulson says, and Clint nearly slips underwater for a moment.

"My eyesight?"

"You're Clint Barton, aren't you? I didn't think there were many cadets named Barton in your age group. Which means you're the best marksman we've ever had, with eyesight that makes some of our scientists on the bio side itchy to dissect you."

Clint gulps. "Dissect?"

"So," Coulson continues as if Clint hadn't spoken, "don't give me the water-in-my-eyes crap. How old do you think I am?"

This has got to be a whole new form of torture. Coulson's voice says he's not kidding around, and for a moment Clint briefly wonders if this is it. Is this his last night at SHIELD Academy before he gets kicked the fuck out for being an unbearable smartass to a superior officer? But then he notices Coulson's eyes. Coulson's right about Clint's eyesight--it's outstanding--and even in the darkness, Clint can see the amused glint in Coulson's eyes, as well as the faint smile lines forming at the corners.

Clint grins.

"I dunno, sir, do you want a specific number, or should I just round to the nearest century?"

The corner of Coulson's mouth twitches for a split second, before he smooths it away. "So, any particular reason the regular pool hours aren't good enough for you, Barton?"

Clint shrugs a little, but it's probably not visible, suspended as he is in the middle of the pool; it just makes the water slosh a little. He carefully approaches the edge of the pool again. "I prefer the quiet," he explains.

Coulson nods, as if he understands perfectly, and maybe this guy's okay, Clint thinks. "And the--nudity?"

Clint smirks as he reaches the pool edge and briefly leans on his arms. "That's just 'cause it feels nice. You've seriously never gone skinny dipping, sir?"

Coulson's mouth tightens in a way that indicates embarrassment, but there's no blush forthcoming. "I never particularly saw a need for it, no," he says.

Without ever really agreeing on it, they both move towards the shallow end of the pool, Clint still in the water and dragging himself along the edge with his hands, and Coulson slowly strolling across the tiles. "You should try it sometime," Clint says with a leer. "In fact, the offer to come on in still stands. The water's nice."

"This pool already has one SHIELD agent too many in it," Coulson says pointedly.

"Not an agent yet," Clint says as his feet hit the pool bottom. "So there's still room for one."

"Do you always hit on superior officers to get out of trouble?" Coulson asks when they reach the end of the pool.

Clint, who's now crouched down low in order to stay submerged up to his shoulders, gives a cheeky shrug. "Only the hot ones, sir. And trust me when I say, you're very hot. Had to give it a shot, at least. Besides, I'd probably hit on you even if I weren't in trouble."

Coulson's face does a complicated thing, almost like he can't believe Clint called him hot, which is just plain ridiculous. Does he not own a mirror?

"All right, all right, time to get out, enough with the ass kissing," Coulson says, and then his lips do that embarrassed tightening thing again, as he realizes what he's said. Clint laughs so hard he nearly ducks underwater.

"Here I was just thinking there wasn't quite enough ass kissing, sir," he says.

Coulson looks past Clint at an indeterminable spot in the water. "You can stop now. I'm not gonna write you up."

Clint's surprised. "Really?"

Coulson turns away, like he wants to let Clint out of the pool without getting (more of) an eyeful. "I'm feeling magnanimous."

Clint considers for a moment, gaze drifting down to a well-shaped ass half-hidden underneath Coulson's suit jacket. "Can I still hit on you?" Clint asks with a smirk.

Coulson goes perfectly still for a moment. Then he carefully looks over his shoulder at Clint. "What do you want?" he asks, suspicious.

"Why do you think I want something?" Clint asks, then adds, "besides, obviously, what anyone wants when they hit on someone."

Coulson doesn't look convinced, and Clint frowns a little, his smirk fading. The implication that people don't ever hit on Coulson unless they _want_ stuff, rankles, for some reason.

"Seriously, if you're not into it, that's fine, I just, y'know," Clint shrugs, "you're hot, is all."

For a long while, Coulson just looks at Clint, like he's trying very hard to decide if Clint is serious or not. Clint does his best to keep his face as neutral as possible, but as the seconds tick by, he starts to feel a little self-conscious. The fact that he's crouched down in the shallow end does keep him from giving Coulson more of an eyeful than he's probably already gotten, but it does little to hide the faint blush he can feel spread across his neck and chest.

Just when the silence is really getting awkward, Clint notices Coulson's ears. Even in the dim light, Clint can see that they're bright red, and he laughs, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet. "Oh my god," he says, delighted.

"What?"

"You are, aren't you?"

Coulson's face goes completely blank. "I don't know what you're talking about. Please get out of the pool."

"You totally are!" Clint crows. "You're into it!" Then he drops his voice into what's supposed to be a seductive purr, but just comes out as a childish sing-song instead. "You're into _me_."

Coulson's ears get redder, and he looks away, folding his hands behind his back in a too-formal pose. "Please get out of the water, Cadet Barton."

But Clint's like a dog with a bone, now. He can't let it go. "Why don't you get _in_ the water, Agent Coulson, sir?"

"Are we back on this?" Coulson says the words with a sigh, but he also sounds vaguely amused, and Clint's grin grows.

"The water's nice," Clint says. "Live a little, for once."

Coulson's blush spreads from his ears and down his neck. Still, he doesn't seem affected by it beyond the return of that miniscule tightening of his mouth, and Clint wonders if he thinks Clint can't see it, or if Coulson's just gifted with an amazing poker face.

"I've lived plenty," says Coulson, though his tone isn't nearly as defensive as his words indicate.

"Bingo at the senior center doesn't count," Clint teases.

"Jeez, seriously, how old do you think I am? I'm 32," Coulson says with exasperation, " _and_ I'm an active Field Officer. Trust me, I've lived."

"Then joining me for a swim shouldn't be a big deal," Clint challenges.

Taking a quick breath to steel himself, Clint stands up and puts his hands on his hips. In the shallow end of the pool, when he pulls himself fully upright, the water comes up to just around his hips, and his dick is bobbing in the water.

Coulson doesn't look at first, even as the water splashes gently with Clint's movements, but then finally, after a beat, he looks at Clint again.

In the semi-darkness, with lights from the pool flickering across Coulson's face, Clint can see Coulson's eyes as they roam across his body, and then down to settle at his crotch. Coulson's ears are still bright red, but he makes no move to attempt to hide his blatant staring, and it's oddly hot. Clint's never had anyone look at him quite like this before, and heat builds in his groin, his dick slowly filling between his legs.

"I'm fairly certain this is some form of sexual harassment," Coulson says, but his voice is gentle and there's a smile on his lips.

"Would that be mutual, sir?" Clint asks. "What with the way you're staring and all?"

Coulson's eyes travel back up until he meets Clint's gaze. "Maybe," he says, lips twitching. "I'll have to ask HR about it."

"Okay, cool," he says, sounding a lot more casual than he feels, "we can go over and ask 'em together, after you come take a swim with me."

Coulson's lips twitch and his hands fall to his sides. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Clint almost chokes on air as Coulson reaches up to undo his tie with deft fingers. "I mean, obviously I'm not up on all the hip lingo you whippersnappers use..."

Clint is momentarily stunned by the snark, before a delighted laugh tumbles out of him. "Oh, I like you," he says, and then his laughter trails off as Coulson walks to the bleachers, pulls his tie off and sets it down, and then starts to unbutton his shirt, half turned away from Clint.

"Wait, you're serious?" Clint asks, anticipation suddenly building in his gut.

"You weren't?" Coulson asks back, casting a supremely unimpressed look in Clint's direction.

Clint blinks. "No--I mean, yes. Yes, definitely."

Coulson toes out of his shoes and then strips off his clothes with meticulous care. He places his suit jacket and pants carefully on the bleachers so as not to wrinkle them, before folding his shirt and undershirt on top.

Clint stands motionless in the water, shivering slightly as the air cools his wet skin, but not caring in the slightest. He was totally right; Coulson is ridiculously cut under that suit, well-defined muscles being revealed as each piece of clothing comes off. Even his calves flex attractively when he takes off his socks, and Clint feels dizzy with it. His dick is rock hard in the water, and there's heat spreading from his groin to every part of his body.

When Coulson's down to his boxers, he turns to Clint, and--face still not showing any embarrassment--pulls them down and off. Clint exhales in a rush, unable to help himself, when Coulson throws his boxers casually over his shoulder, in stark contrast to the care he'd taken with all his other clothes.

Coulson's dick is making Clint's lips part, just a little, because it's beautiful; thick and heavy between his legs, half-hard and rising, and Clint wants to put his mouth on it and taste it. It's not until the water splashes a little that Clint realizes he's taken a step towards the edge of the pool--towards Coulson--and he stops, embarrassed.

Lips curving upwards in something that looks a lot like a smirk, Coulson walks to the pool, and then slips in with only a slight splash before wading towards Clint. He comes to a stop about a foot away, and Clint resists the urge to just tackle him into the water.

"So," Coulson says, shoulders moving just a little in a vague approximation of a shrug. His ears aren't red anymore, Clint notices. "You got me in the pool."

Clint looks at Coulson, at the smattering of chest hair, the dusky nipples, the strong arms--are those freckles on his shoulders?--and his hand is raised, halfway to touching Coulson before he can help it.

Coulson's got a faint scar running from his right armpit towards his bicep. There's another faded scar on his collarbone, and a small Army Ranger tattoo on his left upper arm that would probably seem like nothing more than a blob in the semi-dark to anyone who doesn't have Clint's vision. Clint does reach out then, stroking one wet finger across the ink and smirking when Coulson shivers and doesn't even attempt to hide it.

"Lived a little, I guess," Clint admits.

Coulson nods and smiles back. "A little."

Clint's palm hovers uncertainly just over Coulson's skin as they stare at each other. There's something in Coulson's eyes--a mischievous glint, like he finds Clint amusing somehow--and Clint finds himself fascinated by it. His fingertips are resting on Coulson's tattoo, still now, and Coulson's skin is warm. Clint's just about to close the gap between them and put his hand fully on Coulson's arm, when Coulson throws himself to the right and dives gracefully into a forward crawl.

"Oh, I see how it is," Clint mumbles, even though Coulson probably can't hear him, and then Clint goes in again as well.

They swim a few laps together, in mild competition with each other by unspoken agreement. Turns out, Coulson's a great swimmer. Clint's in excellent shape, but he just hasn't been swimming enough in his life to be really good at it. Clint has little doubt Coulson would have kicked his ass even without the head start. By the time Coulson's more than a whole lap ahead of Clint, Clint twists over onto his back and just floats, catching his breath.

The splashing from Coulson's strokes goes on for a little longer before it stops, Coulson seemingly having noticed that he no longer has competition.

The gentle lap of the water comes closer as Coulson swims to where Clint is floating, before Clint sees Coulson in his peripheral vision, treading water nearby.

"Can't beat an old man?" Coulson asks, smiling. His voice sounds vaguely distorted since Clint's ears are full of water, but it's nice.

"Figured I'd let you win this one," Clint responds, closing his eyes and just drifting with the gentle waves caused by Coulson's presence in the water. Clint can feel his still half-hard dick sticking out of the water, and he wonders if Coulson's watching.

"Gracious of you, and I'm sure it's got nothing to do with your inability to keep up with me," Coulson teases.

Clint snorts and doesn't bother responding, calm settling back into his bones.

There's a faint splash from Coulson's direction and Clint rights himself, finding that he doesn't need to tread water; they've drifted towards the shallow end, and he can just touch the bottom of the pool with his heels. Coulson is a lot closer than Clint thought he'd be--barely an arm's reach away--the water lapping at his freckled shoulders as he looks at Clint with an unreadable expression. Clint holds his breath momentarily, anticipation immediately building in his gut.

"You got me in the pool," Coulson says.

Clint nods. "I did."

The corners of Coulson's mouth pull slightly upwards. "Happy now?"

The glint is back in Coulson's eyes, and Clint's cock rises in the water, fattening between his legs as all his blood rushes south. "Almost," Clint says and pulls Coulson in for a kiss.

Coulson's lips are wet, and he tastes faintly of pool water and chlorine, but his mouth is soft and warm under Clint's. His lips part immediately, and Clint clutches at Coulson's shoulders, deepening the kiss even as he moves closer to Coulson's body. Coulson's cock is as hard as Clint's is, and they bump gently together underwater as Clint maneuvers them towards the edge of the pool.

They hit the edge just as Clint licks into Coulson's mouth, running his tongue over Coulson's bottom teeth and running his hands up Coulson's strong arms. Coulson's pressed against the side of the pool, hands stroking lazily up Clint's back, before dipping back down and stopping just above the curve of his ass, fingertips twitching as if he wants to continue downwards but is restraining himself for some reason. It makes goosebumps break out all over Clint's body, and he smiles into the kiss.

Clint sighs happily before pulling back a little so he can catch Coulson's gaze, slightly dazed and kiss drunk.

"Happier," Clint says, and then turns his smile into a leer. "Could stand to be a little happier still, though."

The shape of their dicks is blurry underwater as he looks down between their bodies, and Clint moves purposefully towards Coulson, obscuring them from view as he presses closer. When he looks up again, Coulson's eyes have closed, and he's got an unreadable expression on his face. Reaching down, Clint gets a hand between them, carefully watching Coulson's face for his reaction. He's not disappointed when Coulson shudders a little and inhales sharply.

"This okay?" Clint asks, smirking, and Coulson immediately nods.

"Yeah, that's--that's okay."

The water makes faint splashing sounds from the movements of Clint's arm as he jerks them both off, and Clint kisses down Coulson's neck, using his other hand to scrape over a peaking nipple. The water comes up to their shoulders, and Coulson tilts his head back, bracing himself against the edge of the pool as his mouth falls open, his breathing heavy.

"I don't--" Coulson starts, and then groans when Clint's thumb drags over his slit.

"Sure," Clint says, agreeing without knowing what Coulson was gonna say, and not caring at all. Coulson's cock is heavy and hard next to his, and he can feel himself creep closer to the edge.

"I don't normally do this," Coulson gets out.

"I can tell."

"That's not--"

"I don't mean it in a bad way," Clint adds, then kisses Coulson again to reassure him. "Just couldn't help myself. Jesus, look at you," he says when he pulls back.

Coulson's eyes are still closed, and there's a line between his eyebrows now, his face vaguely scrunched up in what looks like concentration, like he's on the verge of coming but is trying to hold it back.

Clint leans in again and licks pool water and sweat from Coulson's temple, and says, right up against Coulson's ear, "You're so fucking hot."

Coulson's hips jerk forward a little and he makes a rumbling noise, starting in his chest; Clint can feel it. "I--I can't--" Coulson says, and then his dick jumps and pulses in Clint's grip as he comes into the pool between them.

Clint can't take his eyes off Coulson's face, eyes squeezed shut and upper lip pulling upwards a little as he comes. It's downright pornographic, and Clint says, "Fuck, fuck, that's hot," and then he's coming too, eyes finally sliding shut as he tumbles over the edge.

*

When their breathing quiets down and Clint pries his eyes back open, Coulson is looking at him with a dazed expression.

"Mm," Clint says happily, sticking his nose into Coulson's neck and pressing a quick kiss to the damp skin there. "That was fun."

"That was," Coulson says, and then just stops talking.

The water is getting gross right around their crotches, and they break apart so they can move away. Coulson's eyes are still heavy-lidded, and Clint's skin still humming with the traces of his orgasm.

"Oh god, the pool," Coulson says, finally seeming to gather his wits about him.

"Eh, don't worry about it," Clint shrugs, hauling himself out of the water to sit at the edge of the pool, stretching unashamedly. "It's due to be cleaned tomorrow morning anyway."

When he comes out of his stretch, he catches Coulson's eyes following the lean lines of his body and the droplets of water running down his chest, and Clint smirks. "Gives us some wiggle room, if you wanna go again?"

Coulson's eyes snap up to meet Clint's, and his professional mask falls back into place. Getting out to sit next to Clint, Coulson tilts his head just a little, quizzically. "How do you know it's due to be cleaned tomorrow?"

"Please," Clint scoffs. "I've been coming here for months. Of course I keep track."

"Oh," Coulson says, before looking away--and then, haltingly, adds, "So do you, um, do you--do you do this--?"

Clint's eyebrows climb up at the sudden display of awkwardness. "Do I do this often?"

Coulson nods.

"You mean, have sex in the pool with virtual strangers?"

Coulson nods again, and Clint once again gets the distinct impression that he's suppressing a blush through sheer force of will. A quick glance confirms it; the tips of Coulson's ears have turned red. One corner of Clint's lips curls upwards, and he bumps Coulson's shoulder with his own. "Nah," he says, and he isn't lying. "You're the only one."

"Oh," Coulson says, and Clint's eyesight has never failed him, so he knows he's not imagining the slightly pleased look that comes across Coulson's face.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, wet skin slowly getting cold in the air. Eventually, Coulson clears his throat and gets up, water splashing lightly as he pulls his legs out. "Well. I do actually need to get going."

"See ya, Coulson," Clint says, resolutely not watching Coulson as he goes about gathering his clothes, because he has no idea if he actually will see Coulson again.

"At least start wearing swimming trunks," Coulson chides gently from behind him, and Clint can hear the smile in his voice.

"But it would make poolside trysts like this so much more tedious," Clint teases, and finally gives in to the urge to turn and look at Coulson--but there's nobody there. Coulson's already left. The locker room door is just swinging shut, and Clint watches it close all the way before taking a deep breath and turning back to the pool.

Just as well. He'll probably never see the guy again, anyway.

*

Clint sneaks off while his classmates are still celebrating. He heard Delancey and Jackson are being sent to Wisconsin, while Davidson and Panwar are going to New York, and Clint is too anxious to be around them at the moment; none of them can shut up about their assigned bases. Clint's still not sure where he's going, yet. Nobody's told him.

The pool surface is like a mirror, quiet and abandoned, and it's weird being here during the day, all by himself.

Clint goes to the diving board and sits sideways at the very end, his boot-clad feet dangling just above the surface of the water. Clint wonders if they'll have a pool wherever he ends up.

"Shouldn't you be out celebrating?" comes a voice from behind him.

Clint turns to find Coulson standing behind him, a slight smile on his face, both hands in his pants pockets. He looks mostly the same as the last time Clint saw him, same bland smile, same patient eyes. His hairline might be receding just a tad, but Clint finds that he likes it, and something in his chest gets hot as he remembers what Coulson's orgasm face looks like.

"Hey, Agent Coulson," Clint says, smirking with the memories of their last encounter. "Didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"Why wouldn't you?" Coulson says with a slight frown.

"SHIELD's a big organization," Clint says, shrugging.

Coulson carefully walks onto the diving board, sitting down next to Clint. The added weight causes the very end to curve faintly downwards, and the toes of Clint's boots touch the water. "Congratulations on graduating, Agent Barton," Coulson says, once he's settled.

"Is that why you're here?" Clint asks with a smirk, his tone clearly suggestive. "To _congratulate_ me?"

Coulson gets that look again--that _not blushing, absolutely not_ look--and isn't that interesting?

Scooting closer, Clint nudges Coulson's shoulder with his own, surreptitiously glancing at Coulson's ears to check for blushing. (There's no blush this time.) "Graduated with top marks in most of my classes, too," he says, not even attempting to hide the pride in his voice. "I think that deserves some _congratulating_ , sir."

"Your Russian could be better," Coulson says mildly, but he's smiling as he says it, so Clint doesn't actually think he's criticizing.

"заткнись," Clint says with a grin.

It hits him then, that he's done. He graduated. He's officially an Agent of SHIELD, and he didn't flunk out or get kicked out or anything! He feels light and giddy, and has a sudden urge to playfully push Coulson into the pool.

"Try it, and I'll have you assigned to Australia," Coulson threatens. "Somewhere remote and full of crazy Australian wildlife."

Clint blinks and wonders if Coulson's a mind reader.

"Now, that sounds like a challenge," Clint says boldly, glancing down to look at Coulson's badge. Level 5, it says. Clint blinks. Coulson was Level 2 last time Clint saw him, and that's a whole lot of ranks to cover in very few years. Still, Coulson doesn't have the power to fuck with Clint's assignment.

...right?

"I'm serious," Coulson says, though there's a glint in his eye.

"Sure," Clint says, just as he decides to take his chances and shove Coulson, hard.

Then Coulson's hand closes over Clint's wrist, and his whole world tilts upside down as Clint tumbles off the diving board and into the pool.

He comes to the surface coughing and sputtering, and once he gathers his bearings, he treads water and blinks owlishly up at Coulson, who is now standing on the diving board, casually straightening his suit.

Clint can't help it; it's so unexpected that he bursts out laughing, nearly dipping below the surface again. He glances at Coulson's ankles and wonders if he can get enough of a grip on them to pull Coulson in.

"Australia," Coulson says, like a reminder, and Clint decides to let Coulson remain dry--for now.

"So why are you here?" Clint asks, swimming to the edge of the pool and climbing out, water running off his clothes and pooling in his boots. He makes wet, squishy sounds as he takes a few steps away, just in case Coulson feels like pushing him back in.

"I'm actually here with your assignment," Coulson says, and that gives Clint pause.

"...it's not seriously Australia, is it?" he asks warily, and to his joy, it makes Coulson laugh.

"No," Coulson says, "it's not Australia. We're going to start you off based out of Los Angeles, but your particular skillset makes you attractive for--other purposes."

Clint narrows his eyes as he wrenches his soaked shirt over his head. "What kind of purposes?"

"You'll likely be working with the strike teams," Coulson says, and Clint doesn't fail to notice how Coulson's gaze travels across his torso. He remembers the last time Coulson looked at him like that, and if he puffs up a little, showing off his biceps and his abs, well--there's nobody here to prove that he's doing it on purpose.

"Plural?" Clint asks.

Coulson's eyes return politely to Clint's face. "At first. Our hope, honestly, is to find a permanent strike team for you, where you will serve as a full time team member, primarily in a sniper role. You should expect a lot of traveling, but the upside is that you'd be able to choose which SHIELD facility you want to serve as your home base."

Thinking it over as he stomps to get some more water out of his boots, Clint nods. That doesn't sound bad at all. He doesn't have any ties to or affinity for any particular city, unlike most of his classmates, and he likes the idea of being able to choose where he'll call home.

"And, uh, what facility are you based out of?" Clint asks, glancing at Coulson.

Coulson's smile grows, just barely. "That's classified," he says, then folds his hands behind his back and adds carefully, "though my next assignment has me in Los Angeles."

Clint feels something like amusement spark in his chest. "Yeah?"

"I've been tasked with overseeing the further training of a new graduate," Coulson says. "One of our brightest. His aim is apparently unparalleled."

Clint can't contain his grin. "Really."

Coulson nods.

Blatantly looking Coulson up and down where he's still standing on the diving board at parade rest, Clint leers. "Does that mean you'll _congratulate_ me later, sir?"

Coulson's smile falters for the first time, and he clears his throat. "That's--actually, that's probably--it's against protocol," he says. "Since we'll be working together and all."

Clint hears the regret in his voice, and he forces his own smile to remain in place. "Oh. Well. That's too bad, sir."

Something flits across Coulson's face, a brief moment of hesitation. "If you--if you'd like, I could probably find someone else to act as your handler..."

He trails off and leaves the suggestion hanging in midair, and Clint isn't sure how to react. His first instinct is to say yes immediately, and despite his soggy pants, his cock gives an interested twitch at the thought of getting Coulson naked again. But then Clint thinks about how easy it is to get along with Coulson even though it's been so long since they last saw each other.

"Nah," Clint says, before he can think too hard about it and make any dumb mistakes. "I'm good with you, I think."

There's a spark of what looks oddly like disappointment in Coulson's eyes, but he mostly just looks relieved. Clint understands exactly. Tilting his head just so, he puts on his best leer and purposely looks Coulson up and down again.

"It's still a little bit of a shame, though, sir. I bet you're _real_ good at congratulating people."

Coulson narrows his eyes at Clint, shaking his head as he walks back along the diving board. "How did you pass Infiltration?" he asks. "You're the least subtle person I've ever encountered."

"Wasn't trying to be subtle," Clint shoots back, grinning now.

Chuckling, Coulson stops in front of Clint and sticks out his hand. "Welcome aboard, Agent Barton."

Clint happily takes Coulson's hand; it's warm and dry, and his handshake is strong. "Thank you, Agent Coulson," he says, and then just as Coulson's about to pull back, Clint hauls him into a bear hug, making sure he presses every inch of his still-wet, half-clothed body to Coulson's neat suit.

"Gah!" Coulson says, surprised, making Clint laugh with delight.

Clint goes ass over teakettle into the pool again, but he still thinks it was totally worth it.

*

He slips away right as the celebrations look like they're about to begin.

"I'll see you later," he tells Natasha. "There's a thing I gotta do first."

She tilts her head as she regards her classmates, a vaguely puzzled look on her face. "I think I'll go with them," she says, which surprises Clint. Natasha hasn't exactly worked hard to make interpersonal connections here at Ops. Clint doesn't blame her; even if she'd been here for longer than the one semester Director Fury had required of her, her background alone would probably make many of her classmates soil their pants.

Clint also knows she probably won't ever fully trust people, and she has little in common with these people; ex-army, ex-Feds, ex-cops. Friendship, to Natasha, is an abstract concept. Clint hopes that might change someday, but he's not holding his breath.

"You're gonna party with them?"

She turns to Clint then, and arches one eyebrow smartly. "You don't think I can party?"

"Oh, I know you can party. Just didn't think this was your scene."

"Everything's my scene," she says, and then traipses off to where a group of her classmates are growing louder and bolder.

For a moment, Clint feels weird, watching her go. When they stopped sleeping together, it never felt like a breakup, but this? Now? It feels like it has more finality to it. There's a surge of bittersweet pride in him, and then it's gone.

After Natasha has disappeared from sight, Clint makes his way to the pool. He's not really sure why, he mostly just figures it's tradition at this point, and it would feel weird to be here and not go swimming. When he enters, he is somehow completely unsurprised to find Coulson waiting there, standing next to the diving board, hands behind his back.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Clint says with a smirk, pulling his shirt over his head.

"At least tell me you're planning on wearing swimming trunks," Coulson says, but he sounds vaguely amused.

"Then what would you look at, sir?" Clint says, shimmying out of his jeans and promptly getting them tangled around his ankles since he's still wearing his boots.

Coulson graciously doesn't snicker as Clint almost falls on his face in the most stunningly uncoordinated display of clumsiness, and by the time Clint's managed to find his footing on the slippery deck and kick off his boots, Coulson's moved closer.

"Again, I'm pretty sure this is sexual harassment, Agent Barton."

Clint pauses briefly, hands on his boxer shorts. "Do you mind?"

For a moment, he thinks Coulson might say yes. Might order him to get dressed again. Clint's known Coulson for long enough now, he thinks he might actually listen if _Coulson_ were to give him an order.

But Coulson says nothing, and his face remains carefully blank, in the way it only is when he's purposefully keeping it that way. Clint grins again, wider this time, and slips his boxers off before sauntering to the pool edge.

Coulson doesn't look away from Clint, unafraid to meet his eyes--but there's also no leering at Clint's junk, which Clint finds oddly disappointing. Clint lingers at the edge of the pool for a moment, waiting to see if Coulson will say anything, but when he remains silent, Clint dives in.

The air is faintly tense, and Coulson remains silent as Clint first does laps, and then afterwards just floats on his back, staring at the ceiling. In the years since their initial meeting here, Coulson's seen Clint naked a handful of times, because sometimes missions get messy, but this is the first time he's had the chance to just _look_. Clint's not sure if he wants to cover up or show off, so he ends up doing neither.

"They've assigned me a new team," Coulson says eventually, and it's muffled since Clint's ears are underwater. Clint tips up, treads water, and looks at Coulson.

"A more _permanent_ team," Coulson clarifies, and a lump forms in Clint's throat. He's worked closely with Coulson for years now, and the idea of losing him stings more than it probably should. Clint blinks water out of his eyes and tells himself it's purely for professional reasons.

"Yeah?"

Coulson nods. "It's why I'm here, actually. I need to pick up and debrief my new charges."

Clint swallows and stays where he is, in the middle of the pool. The distance between them feels comforting right now. "Oh. Okay. That's good," he says, and even though he's managing to sound pretty casual--he's an experienced Agent of SHIELD, after all--he knows Coulson can probably see right through him. Coulson's known him longer than almost anyone.

"Yeah," Coulson says. "If you see Agent Romanoff, please tell her I'll be picking her up tomorrow morning at 0800 sharp. I do, of course, expect you to be on time as well. We'll be taking my car to home base."

It takes longer than Clint would like to admit before he understands, and even when he does, he's still speechless for a moment. When Coulson's poker face slips and one corner of his mouth twitches, Clint ducks underwater for a moment before coming up again, spitting water in Coulson's general direction, and missing by a mile. (On purpose, of course--Clint's found out how much Coulson's suits cost.)

"You're a bastard," he accuses, but Coulson breaks and smiles widely, and it's so infectious Clint can't help but grin, too.

"Like I'd trust other handlers with you," Coulson says mildly, but it still gives Clint pause.

"Trust other handlers...?"

Coulson's smile fades a little, and for a long moment he just looks at Clint again, like he thinks he might have said too much already. Clint silently begs him to keep talking.

"You're--one of our most valuable assets," Coulson says eventually, and he sounds so _earnest_ , Clint's stunned. He's never heard this tone of voice before from Coulson. "You know how good you are. Your aim is unparallelled, and your work ethic and loyalty are..." Coulson trails off and shakes his head, chuckling a little. "And true, sometimes you disregard orders, and true, sometimes that leads to bringing home strays, and sometimes those strays are Russian and trying very, very hard to kill us all."

Clint has the decency to blush a little at that, looking away as embarrassment heats his face, but in his defense, the calls he's made in the line of duty have worked out well so far.

"Barton," Coulson says quietly, in a tone that makes something inside of Clint twist. "You're--" Coulson's lips thin as he clearly decides he's said enough.

Clint takes a deep breath. "Come on in," he says, jerking his head sideways.

Coulson stares.

"I mean it," Clint says, keeping his voice gentle, though it's not really a question.

Coulson looks like he might object, but then he's pulling off his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on the bleachers as he goes. Clint has a brief, vivid flashback to the first night they met, and he has to shake his head to clear it. When Coulson's naked, he slips into the pool, barely even disturbing the surface.

"Broad daylight. Graduation day, so plenty of people around. Anyone could walk right in. This is pretty ballsy, even for you," Coulson remarks, then adds, when Clint snickers, "Yes, I am aware that I said ballsy, please keep your puns to yourself."

"And yet I don't seem to be the only one in the pool," Clint points out.

Coulson's poker face betrays nothing, but his ears turn red. Clint loves that. Has always loved that about him. It's very telling.

He swims to where Coulson still has one hand on the pool's edge, reaching past Coulson's left shoulder to support himself. Coulson doesn't object, so Clint just keeps going, crowding into him until their bodies are pressed up against each other.

"I'm not sure Agent Romanoff will be entirely okay with this," Coulson says carefully.

Clint blinks. "Nat and I stopped fucking like four months ago, Coulson."

"Oh," Coulson says, sounding dizzy. It disappears off his face fast, Coulson clearly clamping down on it, but Clint saw it anyway: relief. Clean relief, making Coulson's mouth twitch and his eyes light up a little, and Clint sighs fondly.

"You fucking idiot," he tells Coulson, and then leans in to kiss him.

Coulson inhales sharply, freezing for a moment, but then he kisses back, carefully, tentatively. He lets go of the pool edge so he can wrap his arms around Clint instead, clinging to him and letting him support their combined weight.

"Coulson," Clint croaks against Coulson's mouth as his cock begins to harden. Without thinking about it, Clint rolls his hips forward, seeking friction, and a moan is dragged out from somewhere deep in his chest.

Maybe it's the movement, or maybe it's hearing Clint's voice, but something breaks the spell and Coulson pulls out of the kiss, resting his forehead against Clint's.

"This is a terrible idea," Coulson says, his voice sounding strained.

"This is an excellent idea," Clint says back, tightening his hold on Coulson when Coulson's own grip loosens. "Coulson, come on, I--we've--"

Clint fumbles, not sure how to say, _We've been dancing around each other for years_ , or _I've never stopped wanting you, not really, ever since that first night_.

"Protocol--" Coulson starts, and anger surges through Clint faster than he thought was possible.

"Fuck protocol!" Clint bites out harshly, pushing away from Coulson. He ends up standing a few feet away, where the pool is just shallow enough for him to reach the bottom. "You didn't give a shit about protocol in Marrakesh last year when we decided to change the mission parameters, or when we were trying to track down that one dude, the fucking--the jumping one--outside of Vancouver."

_You didn't give a shit about protocol the night we met_ , Clint doesn't say.

Coulson looks away, but Clint keeps going. "You have never, not once, given a shit about protocol when someone tells me to bring a gun and I show up with a bow, Coulson. In fact, you defend me. Every time, you defend me."

"That's different," Coulson says quietly. "Mission parameters are different when we're talking about life or death--"

"Why is this so bad?" Clint asks, water splashing as he gestures with jerky movements. "What are you so fucking afraid of?"

Coulson's face hardens, and he frowns at Clint. "How about a bias in the field? How about being unable to make the right call in a situation that requires a snap decision? Barton, when we're in a life or death situation, I need to make sure that _every_ call I make is the right call, _and_ that it's made for the right reasons."

Clint feels like the air has been punched out of him. "Coulson--that won't change if we're--" He pauses, because what he wants from Coulson is more than sex, but he can't bring himself to say _dating_. "I trust you," is what he eventually settles on.

Coulson sighs heavily. "Your faith in me is flattering," he says, and then looks sadly at Clint. "And I'm glad you trust me, but I, on the other hand, don't."

The water suddenly feels cold, and Clint fights the urge to wrap his arms around himself. "But--just so we're clear," he says. "You do want me... right?"

Coulson hesitates, but then nods, just once. "Yes."

Clint thinks about late nights spent in treetops and sniper's nests and on rooftops, with Coulson in his ear, and he thinks about take-out and safe houses and their mutual chronic inability to maintain radio silence. "We're _good_ together," he says. "Don't you think it's worth the chance?"

Coulson looks like he's going to say yes. He looks like he _wants_ to say yes. But then he shakes his head and meets Clint's eyes dead on as he says, "No."

Clint's not sure what to say. He breathes through the pain in his chest, telling himself it's only his bruised ego announcing its presence. At least he gets Coulson as a permanent handler. At least he gets that, and Nat.

It doesn't feel nearly as overwhelmingly awesome as it actually is, but the thought helps a little.

"All right," he says, because what else can he say?

Coulson still looks sad as Clint makes his way to the pool's edge and pulls himself out, water splashing as he shakes himself like a dog.

"Tomorrow morning, eight a.m.?" he asks, stepping into his boxers and jeans and not caring that they're getting vaguely soggy from his wet skin.

"Yeah," Coulson confirms. He's still in the pool, one hand on the edge, water lapping at his freckled shoulders. "Eight sharp."

Clint nods and forces a smile. "I'll be there. Bells and whistles on."

He gathers up the rest of his clothes and heads for the exit, because he needs to retreat and get his head on straight, and he needs to do it right away, but Coulson's voice stops him.

"Clint," Coulson says, sounding very defeated.

"Don't worry about it," Clint says quickly, turning so he can shoot Coulson a quick smile. If it doesn't quite reach his eyes, Coulson either doesn't notice, or doesn't comment on it. (Who is Clint kidding--it's Coulson, he notices.)

"I'm--" Coulson starts, as if he's about to apologize.

"Hey, no," Clint interrupts. "It's fine. Really. It'll be fine. It's a valid choice."

The bitch of it is, Clint knows that he's not wrong about that.

*

The pool hall is dark and quiet, and Clint doesn't bother with finesse or care when he enters; he just picks the lock and walks in. He stops by the diving board and breathes deeply, taking in the scents of chlorine and faint traces of sweat. He's not sure why he came here.

(Or maybe he is. Maybe he's just lying to himself again. Maybe he's been lying to himself all along.)

Things haven't changed much in the years since he was here last, and isn't that something, at least?

The bleachers look the same. The life preservers are still hanging along the same wall, the ropes and training equipment used for water drills are still stacked in the same corner, and the skimmer, which has definitely seen better days, is leaning against the wall in the little corner by the women's locker room. The diving board has been replaced since Clint was here last, though, and Clint feels oddly not okay with that.

He pushes down the feeling of unease, because everything else is largely the same, and this is far enough from New York that nothing's really changed. In fact, everything is so remarkably like he remembers it that he can almost pretend Loki never happened.

Shedding his clothes with robotic movements, Clint piles them at the edge of the bleachers and then slides into the water, barely making ripples as he goes. He's a better swimmer, a better operative--better at a lot of things--since the last time he went in this water, but he tries not to think about what those skills have cost him, and just floats.

(He's worse at a lot of things, too, but he's not thinking about that, either.)

Skinny dipping used to be a source of stress relief for him. It used to make him feel free. No such feeling is forthcoming tonight.

Clint can't decide if he likes the temperature of the water or not. One moment it feels freezing, as if his skin is overheated and feverish, and the next it feels hot, like Tony's oversized jacuzzi.

He floats on his back and stares at the ceiling and tries to think about nothing. Electric blue creeps in along the edges of his vision and he closes his eyes for a moment, disturbed, before forcing them open again, his mind screaming at him: he's Hawkeye. Without his vision, he's nothing.

His ears are underwater, and the faint splashing sounds he makes as he drifts on the surface sound hollow.

They won the battle of New York, they fended off an alien attack, they prevented the deaths of millions of people, and the only person who matters is--not there.

(Clint knows he should feel equally bad about everyone else, but he doesn't have enough room for that much guilt in his head. He doesn't have enough room for them all in his broken heart.)

Clint's face is wet. He probably splashed water on himself.

Curling in on himself, Clint breathes out and wraps his arms around his knees as he sinks. He's halfway between the shallow and the deep end, so he doesn't go far down, but the dim light is still comforting, the nearest underwater lamp far enough away for his comfort. With his eyes open underwater, he can still see, but everything is blurry. Everything has gone dull and soft, the water almost like a fog on his senses. Clint likes it.

He sits at the bottom of the pool for as long as he can. He stays underwater until his lungs burn and his head is fuzzy, and he makes harsh fists in the water, fingernails digging into his water-soft skin. The temptation to breathe in is strong, even though Clint knows that instinct would drive him to the surface immediately. He wonders what kind of damage he could do first, though. How much water could he possibly inhale in one breath?

Still, Clint's survival instinct has always been strong. And if the electric blue of a scepter pressing into his chest--if ice in his heart and obedience in his soul--if all of that didn't drive it out of him, the pool at fucking SHIELD Academy sure as fuck won't.

Clint wonders if things would have been different if Loki had taken someone else that day. He wonders if things would have been different if he'd been there, on the Helicarrier--if he'd been _himself_ on the Helicarrier--and been there, right there, when Loki--when Coulson--

The last remnants of air left in Clint's lungs leave him through his nose, a couple of small bubbles in the water, and then he's kicking out with his legs, straining for safety, rising to the surface.

Clint wonders if things would have been different if he'd ever said anything more meaningful to Coulson than, "Hey, wanna go skinny dipping?"

(His shrink uses a lot of fancy and kind and soothing words to tell him not to dwell on the what-ifs. _Everyone_ says not to dwell on the what-ifs. Naturally, that's all Clint can think about. How can he not?)

Clint comes to the surface gasping harshly for air, splashing and flailing to get to the poolside, where he pulls himself halfway out of the water, rests his forehead on the tiles, and catches his breath. His lungs are on fire, and every breath in and out hurts.

Clint welcomes the pain; it's the first time he's felt anything in months.

"You know," Natasha says quietly from where she's suddenly appeared on the bleachers, "this is probably why Dr. Harvey didn't want you to be by yourself."

Clint doesn't respond, doesn't question how she found him, and doesn't question why she's here.

(He knows why she's here. It's not like he was going to do anything, but he can't really blame her for following him, anyway. He would do the same for her.)

When he eventually climbs out of the pool, he doesn't bother covering up, and Natasha doesn't roll her eyes at him, like she normally does when Clint indulges his exhibitionist streak. Instead she holds out a towel, wraps it around him and then keeps her arms there, hugging him close and holding on.

Clint's fingers curl into the soft fabric of the towel and he puts his chin down on her shoulder as he stares into space and thinks about nothing. Natasha squeezes him a little tighter and doesn't say anything about how he's dripping water on her.

(He's so grateful for her.)

*

Clint enters the pool area via the men's locker rooms. The surface of the water is lapping restlessly against the sides of the pool, as if the water can sense all the commotion that's been going on nonstop across all of SHIELD's facilities in the past few weeks. Clint knows that all classes have been cancelled. He knows they've been corralling students and trying to figure out who, if any, were approached by Hydra. Trying to figure out what to do with the good ones that don't have homes to go to.

Clint wanders along the pool, boots squeaking faintly on the wet floor, and he wonders if he'll ever be able to really let go of this place. Tony has multiple properties with pools, but they're not the same. There's something about the smell of this place, Clint thinks. He will forever associate the smell of this particular pool with all his late nights skinny dipping, all the times he sought out this place for relaxation. Clint thinks that he'll always have a soft spot in his heart for this place, even when the world around him is tinted with the haze of betrayal and disbelief since--well, since everything. Since Hydra.

The news had rocked him to his very core. He suspects a lot of people reacted that way. Clint had been holed up in a little hut at the edge of the Amazon, waiting for an extraction that never came. By the time he realized something was very, very wrong and had managed to hike back to civilization, the fight was over and SHIELD had fallen.

The news of Fury's death hit harder than he'd thought it would. Fury was the one who'd recruited him, the first person to ever look at Clint and see the potential for something more than a circus freak, and something greater than a trick shot. Clint had stared numbly at nothing even as he'd made his way back stateside, and the numbness didn't start to fade until he'd finally got a hold of Hill to get the full scoop. Knowing that Fury is still out there somewhere is a notion Clint constantly clings to. It helps.

With Cap gone (on some crazy-ass hunt for his boyfriend or something, Clint didn't really get that) and Natasha gone (and Clint wasn't worried--he _wasn't_ \--she always resurfaces, sooner or later), and SHIELD in disarray around him, he'd considered his options. Volunteering for cleanup, once they'd cleared him of any involvement with Hydra, had been the natural choice. The easy choice.

What the fuck else was he gonna do?

Clint breathes deep, taking in the smell of chlorine and watching light reflect off the surface of the pool. He's doing better since the last time he was here. He has to smile to himself at the irony. He's still standing, even as SHIELD continues to fall to pieces around him. There's something poetic about that, but he can't quite verbalize it.

Maybe he'll go for a swim again. For old times' sake.

The sound of the main doors opening and closing gets Clint's attention, hand briefly going to the firearm strapped to his thigh, and then he relaxes as Bruce walks towards him. "There you are."

"Yeah, uh, sorry I ran out on you," Clint says apologetically.

"I don't mind," Bruce says, the same way he says most things; with a mild smile that belies what Clint knows is always boiling right under the surface. "Though I think maybe you're doing the whole babysitting thing wrong."

Clint snorts. "Wasn't sent to babysit you, Doc."

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitches in amusement. "What are we calling it, then?"

They sit down on the bleachers together and Clint kicks his legs out in front of him, leaning back on the next row up and sighing. "I think the official term is _protection detail_? Although to be honest, I don't think you need much protecting."

"You and I both know I'm not the one you're protecting," Bruce says, and his smile doesn't even falter as he says it.

It's enough to make Clint feel a little bad, because he's had his freedom and his life back for quite a while now, and even in the wake of Hydra, Clint's reputation allowed him to have his name cleared really damn fast. Bruce, on the other hand, can't even get on a plane without some higher ups somewhere getting twitchy, and it doesn't matter where they hail from in the bowl of alphabet soup. Surveillance is surveillance.

Clint knows they've got more in common than you'd think to look at them, Bruce and him. The difference is, where the icy blue left Clint's soul long ago, Bruce still carries the Hulk under his skin every day, volatile and ready to burst out at a moment's notice.

Clint huffs in frustration. People just don't seem to understand the level of control Bruce has over the Hulk--over himself.

"How did your thing go?" Clint asks, before he can lose himself in his maudlin thoughts.

"Went well. I managed to stop the cell regeneration, and we've got the Lockbox secured and on the plane now. I went over everything with the remaining staff here, though the debriefing was largely lost on my audience, I suspect," Bruce says. "Tony tried making a PowerPoint presentation that would be easier for everyone else to understand--"

"You mean the dunce version," Clint laughs. "Yeah, I saw it."

"It's, er, yeah," Bruce says, looking a little chagrined and blatantly avoiding calling it the dunce version, but Clint doesn't mind one bit. In fact, the self-sustaining device they are there to retrieve is apparently very dangerous, if Bruce is to be believed (and he always is), so Clint greatly appreciates Tony's attempt at making the tech behind it more understandable to grunts like himself.

When shit hits the fan, it's always good to know who, or what, you're up against. That's Steve's philosophy, anyway, and Clint can't say he disagrees.

"Anyway, all the data seems to be intact, so we'll take it to the Tower and then Tony can handle the rest. I spoke to Hill, and apparently they're sending a sweeping team. Once they get here, we can take off."

"They think there's still moles here?" Clint asks, a little surprised, and mostly disappointed. There's a dumb, stubborn part of him that still hopes--even now, after the body count and arrest orders have piled up--that all the Hydra agents came from Communications or SciTech. Because _Clint_ came from Ops. And knowing who really trained him, what was really lurking underneath the surface of what had looked so much to Clint like a second chance, well. It makes Clint feel dirty. Used.

"They're pretty sure we got everyone," Bruce says. "They just wanna double check, I guess."

Clint nods and thinks about the line of bodybags out front. He spotted one of his old instructors among them. Jenkins. Jenkins was his name. Clint doesn't know if he died a Hydra agent, or an Agent of SHIELD. He pushes it out of his mind. "All right."

"So what's with the pool visit?" Bruce asks, but his voice has taken on a gentle tone that suggests he knows more than he's letting on. "Going for a swim?"

Chuckling, Clint nods towards the pool. "I used to, all the time, when I was at the Academy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I used to come here and go swimming in the middle of the night."

"Alone?"

Clint nods. "Yeah."

"Why?" Bruce asks, and he looks a little puzzled, but no less amused, when Clint glances over.

"Why not?" Clint asks, shrugging. "It helped me relax, helped clear my mind so I could think." He waits a beat, then adds, "Plus, with nobody around, I could go skinny dipping."

Bruce nods and laughs, nudging Clint. "There it is."

And Clint's not sure what makes him do it; maybe it's because he's learning to trust his new teammates, or maybe it's because allies are hard to come by right now and he holds a greater appreciation for the few he's got. Or maybe it's just because he's been carrying this around by himself for so long, and he's had so many new burdens added to his load recently, something _has_ to spill over, but Clint takes a deep breath and says, "You know, I met Coulson for the first time, here."

Bruce goes perfectly still next to him, every minute movement stopping. Clint doesn't dare look over. "Yeah?" Bruce asks. His voice is gentle and inquiring.

Clint carefully breathes out and nods. "Yeah. He, uh, he caught me skinny dipping."

"I didn't realize you'd known him for that long," Bruce says quietly. His voice holds sympathy now, but thankfully no pity. None of them has ever pitied him, not even in the immediate aftermath of New York, when Clint was a mess and his brain still felt like it was inside out. He likes that about his team.

"Yep," Clint confirms, nodding again. "He really should have reported me, but he didn't. I kept coming here until I graduated."

"Why didn't he report you?"

"I jerked him off over there," Clint says, pointing, and then throws his head back and laughs when Bruce chokes on air.

It's a good laugh, the kind that comes from deep in Clint's belly and fills every part of his body until he's got tears in his eyes and he's shaking with it.

Bruce has gone faintly red, but he's working on composing himself, one eyebrow raised as he takes off his glasses and puts them in the breast pocket of his shirt.

"You should see your face right about now, Doc," Clint says, the last traces of his laugh still leaving him in warm chuckles.

"That was kind of out of left field," Bruce admits.

Clint closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply, happy that he at least has that memory of Coulson. Happy that he can think about it again without regret and guilt burning a hole in his gut.

"So, you two, was that a thing?" Bruce asks.

It stings more than Clint thought it would when he shakes his head. "Nah. Never got that far. It was sort of like a one-off, and then after I graduated, he ended up being my handler, and fraternization within a team is technically against protocol. Coulson was big on protocol."

"I thought you and Natasha used to...?" Bruce sounds puzzled.

"Coulson was big on protocol," Clint says, grinning. " _I_ wasn't."

When Clint looks over, something softens in Bruce's face as he smiles. "I'm sorry I never got to know the man," he says, and it sounds like he genuinely means that.

"Actually, there's still a chance of that," a voice says from the doorway, and both Clint and Bruce scramble to their feet, startled--and then Clint's suddenly having trouble breathing. Next to him, Bruce lets out this little noise, this little gasp, like he's speechless, and Clint numbly thinks that he really, really knows the feeling.

In the doorway stands Phil Coulson, looking at them with a nervous smile on his face. "Though on second thought," he says, "I should probably have led with something less flippant."

*

There's something sitting on Clint's chest. An elephant, maybe. It's hard to breathe. It's hard to _think_ straight.

"So there's probably a few things you guys should know," Coulson says from the doorway.

"What the hell...?" Bruce asks, and in his peripheral vision, Clint can see Bruce's head swivel from Coulson to Clint and back again, back and forth, back and forth.

"You're not real," Clint says.

"I'm real," Coulson says. The nervous smile is still in place, but his voice doesn't shake or tremble.

Clint's made it a habit to always carry at least two projectile weapons on his body at all times--you can never be too prepared, after all--and one hand automatically goes to the firearm strapped to his thigh. The other curls into a loose fist, fingers ready to close around the detachable pin in his belt that Tony made for him. (He can bury it in anyone's eye in a split second if necessary.)

"You're not real," Clint says firmly, because he doesn't _want_ to believe it.

"Agent Barton," Coulson says, which is dumb as shit, because they're not agents anymore, none of them. Coulson takes a hesitant step forward, but stops when Clint draws his weapon--not aiming it, but grasping it tightly. "Clint."

"Is this--is this Hydra, are you Hydra?"

"I'm not Hydra," Coulson says, hurt evident both in his voice and on his face.

"What the fuck are you?"

"I didn't think the LMD program was this far along," Bruce says, almost conversationally, as he continues looking between Clint and Coulson.

"It's not," Clint says.

"Actually, it is," Coulson says, "or it was, anyway. I'm fairly certain it died when the Lumber Mill facility blew up. Though I'm not an LMD. I'm not sure how to prove it. We could find an EMP if you want?"

"How about I just put a bullet between your eyes?" Clint snarls. "That ought to clear things up real fast."

"Last time we were both here, you asked me a question," Coulson says quickly, and Clint freezes. Coulson keeps talking, his eyes on Clint, even as Bruce slowly inches sideways, placing himself almost, but not quite, between them. "You can chalk it up to cowardice or denial, but I didn't give you an honest answer to that question. Because the--the truth is, I wanted to make a different call. I should have."

Clint's trying to process what he's hearing, but it's difficult. "A different call?" he asks, a little bit because he still isn't entirely convinced this is really Coulson, but mostly because he just really needs to hear the words out loud.

"I should have taken a chance on you," Coulson says, sounding intensely regretful. "I should have said yes."

Clint blinks and swallows hard, because there's suddenly a big lump in his throat that won't go away. His gun hand feels like it might be trembling, except that would be ridiculous; his hands are the steadiest hands in the world. Holstering his gun again, Clint realizes that he's breathing heavily, and he fights the urge to sit down and stick his head between his knees.

"Coulson?"

Coulson takes another step towards Clint, and another, and another, until he's only an arm's length away. "It's me," he says, a hint of a plea in his voice.

"How is this possible?" Clint asks, and it comes out hoarse and choked. Clint hates it, but he can't seem to control his voice right now.

Coulson's shoulders slump just a touch. "It's a... very, very long story."

Clint's eyes roam over Coulson's body. He looks good. Healthy, from what Clint can see. He moves without any sign of injury or pain. If this is really Coulson, he's had plenty of time to heal.

Anger ignites in Clint at that realization, and now he is shaking for real, hands balling into fists at his sides, and he can feel his face growing hot. "How long have you been back?" Clint asks through clenched teeth.

"That's not really--" Coulson starts to say, but Clint knows all of Coulson's tricks and diversion tactics, and cuts him off.

"How long?"

Coulson doesn't answer for several long seconds, before he looks away. "The Director had me brought back after a few days..."

He trails off when Clint lets out a harsh breath in disbelief and shock. To the side, Bruce shuffles, and Clint can see in his peripheral vision that he doesn't look happy. His face has started to take on a definite angry look. Normally, an unhappy, angry Bruce would be cause for concern, but Clint can't bring himself to care at the moment. They have a right to be angry.

"Days?" Clint asks. " _Days?_ "

He genuinely can't tell what's more horrifying: the fact that Coulson was dead for days, or the fact that he's apparently been alive again for all this time without telling them.

Coulson opens and closes his mouth, and then looks away again, shameful. Clint's fingernails dig into the skin of his palms, and before he can think too hard about it, he lunges towards Coulson, one of his fists connecting with Coulson's jaw with a solid thud.

Coulson stumbles sideways two steps--and then promptly slips on the pool deck and goes head first into the pool.

For a split second, it's incredibly satisfying, but then the anger bleeds through again, coloring every frantic thought running through Clint's mind, from _How did Fury do this?_ to _Why didn't anyone find out sooner?_ He stomps to the edge of the pool and stares down at where Coulson's breaking the surface again, coughing and rubbing water out of his eyes.

"What the fuck?" Clint yells down at him.

"I admit, that was not the reaction I was hoping for," Coulson says, "but, altogether not surprising." He doesn't make any move to get out of the pool, standing waist deep near the shallow end. Clint is so angry, and he can't stop shaking, so he doesn't even look when Bruce comes to stand next to him, looking down at Coulson.

"Well," Bruce says. He sounds a little sour. "I can see you guys have a lot to talk about. Clint, I'll be right outside if you need me." Then he turns a grim stare on Coulson. " _Right_ outside."

Coulson's not dumb. He just nods once, hearing the threat for exactly what it is.

Clint waits until the door closes behind Bruce and then puts his hands on his hips and stares down at Coulson. For a few, long moments they just stare at each other, and Clint doesn't know where to start. He's feeling a little lightheaded. Definitely detached. Shock, he realizes, but he can't do much about it, so he just rides it.

"This is shitty," Clint says.

"I'm aware," Coulson agrees, head ducking a little in shame. "I'm so sorry, Clint."

"No," Clint says, holding up a finger in a gesture he _knows_ he's picked up from Coulson, but he can't help it. "No, you don't understand. This is _shitty_ , Coulson."

"Yeah," Coulson agrees again.

"I can't--this is just--I can't lose SHIELD and get you back in the same month," Clint says, shaking his head. "It's too much."

"Clint," Coulson says, sounding intensely regretful once more. "Clint, I wanted to tell you, I wanted to--"

"Then why didn't you?" Clint accuses, furious. "I'm aware that sometimes I'm hard to reach, but Jesus fuck, Coulson!"

"It's complicated," Coulson sighs.

"Yeah, coming here like this and doing that--the little--the fucking _declaration_ bullshit is a lot better," Clint says sarcastically. "What the fuck is that?"

Coulson makes his way to the edge of the pool but pauses by the ladder, as if he's not sure Clint will let him up if he tries. "I--I just thought I should tell you--"

"It's manipulative as fuck, is what it is," Clint snaps.

Coulson's face just sort of falls, and even through the anger, Clint feels a stab of guilt. "I didn't mean--I'm sorry," Coulson says. "I was wrong, Clint. I was _so_ wrong."

It's probably the most honest Coulson's ever been with Clint.

His resolve crumbles then, and he has to fight back tears as he reaches down to give Coulson a hand, pulling him up and out of the pool. Water splashes onto the tiles as Coulson starts squishing it out of his pockets, before taking off his suit jacket entirely. Clint just watches him in silence and reminds himself that he's still standing. SHIELD has fallen, but he's still standing. And so, apparently, is Phil Coulson.

"I came here, you know," Clint says, not really sure why. Coulson's movements still. "After you--after I thought--afterwards," Clint settles on.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Coulson says, quietly.

Clint studies Coulson's face. It's got a few more frown lines than he can recall. There's a droplet of water running down Coulson's cheek and it could be a tear or it could be pool water. Clint thinks he could tell if he placed his mouth there and licked it up.

"I missed you. I mourned you."

"It's been--difficult," Coulson admits. "I was lied to a lot."

"So was I," Clint shoots back, a little harsher than he intends to.

Silence settles between them for a little while, only the sounds of water lapping against the pool edges and the _drip drip drip_ of Coulson's wet clothes to keep them company.

"I love you," Coulson says quietly, and Clint nearly punches him into the pool again.

"God fucking dammit," Clint says, throwing his hands up and gritting his teeth, even as his heart starts thundering in his chest and a weight lifts off his chest for the first time in what feels like years. Decades.

"I know it's not okay to put all of this on you right now," Coulson says, clutching his wet suit jacket and looking horribly lost. "I know we all still have so much to do... Hydra. SHIELD. I know that this is terrible timing. I am sorry, I just. I needed you to know. And I understand that this is just, it's a lot to take in, and that you've probably moved on, but I just needed to say it. Even just once, okay?"

"Shut the fuck up," Clint says, and then grabs Coulson and hauls him in for a kiss, because the alternative is to break down in tears.

Coulson drops his jacket in surprise and makes a muffled _Mmph_ sound against Clint's lips, body stiffening for a moment--but then he melts into the kiss, clinging to Clint and getting his clothes wet.

Clint clings back.

*

They kiss until Clint's knees give out and he has to sit down on the bleachers, and then Coulson just sits down next to him and they kiss some more. Clint loses track of time, and he doesn't know how long they sit there kissing until they finally break apart for air, but when they do his clothes are wet and his hands are fisted in Coulson's shirt.

"Clint," Coulson says, and it's harsh and loud, even over their ragged breathing.

Clint keeps his eyes closed and leans his forehead against Coulson's, suddenly terrified that if he opens his eyes he'll find that none of it's real--or worse, that it's real, but that Coulson's secretly been Hydra this whole time.

"Clint," Coulson says again. "Please look at me."

Clint doesn't want to, but he can't resist--not when it's Coulson asking--and he forces his eyes open. Air rushes out of his lungs, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, when all he sees is Coulson's face, the familiar face with the kind eyes and the slightly crooked nose that he broke on his first mission for SHIELD. (Everyone has heard that story, but Clint's one of the few people who _knows_ it.)

"We should get out of here," Coulson says. There's something that might be a tentative smile on his face, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah." Clint doesn't actually want to move--he's not sure he can--but he nods and closes his eyes again. "Yeah, okay." But neither of them get up.

Coulson's hand, resting on the side of Clint's neck, starts moving a little, his thumb brushing across Clint's hairline, fingers curling against Clint's skin in the space below his ear. It's tentative, but sensual, and the desperate edge of hurt and regret fades. Clint's dick, which has only been half interested in the proceedings up until now, really sits up and starts to take notice, and Clint squeezes his eyes shut and makes a face. He doesn't want to give this up, not yet.

"I'm sorry," Coulson says, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

Something hot and painful burns in Clint's chest when Coulson apologizes, so Clint kisses him again instead, to shut him up. The kiss instantly grows deeper than before, and Clint lets go of Coulson's shirt so he can wrap both arms around him and practically climb into his lap, not caring one bit that his clothes continue to soak up water from Coulson. The need to be close, to get closer and closer, is overwhelming, and he feels like he can't get enough. Coulson doesn't seem to mind, thankfully, pulling until Clint is straddling him and then just holding on.

Underneath Coulson's wet pants, Clint can feel his hardness, and without thinking too much about it, he reaches down to put his hand over the bulge. It draws a groan from Coulson, whose hips surge up and into Clint's touch, and Clint breaks the kiss, mildly surprised at the reaction.

Coulson's eyes are heavy-lidded and he looks slightly dazed, even as his hands roam to Clint's back, fingers pressing against his shoulder blades. Coulson's hips move upwards again, and Clint goes with the movement this time, rolls his own pelvis forward and down, to grant them both friction. Coulson makes another little groan, and he draws a shaky breath. "Clint--"

"Just," Clint says, and then doesn't finish the sentence, but kisses Coulson again instead. _Just shut up._

Coulson's fingers dig into Clint's shoulder blades again and they rock against each other, their movements like waves, until Clint's own crotch is so damp with both water and precome that he has to get his pants open and pull his dick out. Coulson breaks the kiss when Clint fumbles between them, and then groans when he sees what Clint is going, one hand immediately coming around to grab at Clint's cock.

Coulson's grip is _perfect_ , just firm enough, and even though his hands are a little wet, they're still warm. There's a mewling sound, and Clint realizes with a start that it's coming from him. Then Coulson runs his thumb over the head of Clint's cock, smearing precome everywhere, and Clint's eyes flutter shut as he tries to get himself under control.

"You too," Clint mutters, forcing his eyes open again so he can see what he's doing. "You too."

Getting Coulson unzipped is a little trickier, his wet pants catching a little, and Clint has to briefly find his footing and raise himself up. Clint isn't particularly happy with even that temporary separation, but fortunately Coulson doesn't seem to be, either; he's barely got his pants and underwear past his ass before he drags Clint back down on top of him, hand never having left Clint's cock.

As soon as they're skin to skin, Coulson hitches upwards again, and Clint has to put his head down on Coulson's shoulder for a moment, because that's _Coulson's dick_ against him. It's been years, and yet suddenly the sensory memory of the last time Clint had free access to Coulson's dick slams into him. Clint has to touch, and when he wraps his hand around the hard shaft, it _feels_ familiar.

Coulson's not the same. Clint's not the same, either. They've got a lot of years and mileage and scars between the two of them, and a lot of lies and hurt on top of that, but when Coulson presses against Clint, slides the fingertips of one hand along the small of his back, and jerks Clint off in long, sure strokes with the other hand, none of that matters. The world falls away around Clint, and Hydra, and New York, and Loki--none of it can touch him.

"Coulson," he gasps, heat and pressure rising in him. "Phil, Phil--"

Coulson presses harder into Clint, drags his lips along Clint's jaw and down along the side of his throat, and Coulson groans. "Clint," he says, in a raspy and needy voice Clint's never heard before--and apparently that's Clint's undoing. Because Coulson wants him and is here and _real_ , and then Clint's falling, tumbling over the edge, and seeing white and stars behind his closed eyelids as his hand falters in its rhythm on Coulson's cock.

His orgasm has barely crested when, underneath him, Coulson bucks up hard, so hard that Clint has to hold on not to fall straight off Coulson's lap. Clint tightens his grip on the hard dick in his hand, rides the motion of Coulson's body, and puts his lips to Coulson's ear, panting, "Come on, come on--"

When Coulson comes, he says Clint's name, just once.

Clint doesn't open his eyes--he just presses his face further into the crook of Coulson's neck and doesn't want to move.

*

They cling to each other some more.

The amount of come between them feels epic. They never got their shirts off, and everything is turning into a cold, wet, sticky mess, but Clint can't bring himself to get up just yet. Coulson doesn't seem any more inclined to move than Clint, both arms now wrapped around him, hugging him tightly.

"For a while I thought I was better off dead," Coulson says quietly.

Clint's blood runs cold.

"I don't mean that I'm suicidal," Coulson adds hurriedly, and Clint relaxes a little. "I just--what they did to me, Clint... to bring me back..."

Clint holds his breath and focuses on staying completely still, wanting to let Coulson tell this story on his own terms.

"What they did to me, to bring me back... I don't think any human should endure it," Coulson says, sounding sad. "I have to believe that it wasn't for nothing, though. That I can do some good."

"You're worth a lot more than that to me," Clint mumbles, vaguely embarrassed by the admission, but unable _not_ to say it.

"I'm starting to see that," says Coulson, and Clint can hear the smile on his voice.

"Is that what you're doing now?" Clint asks. "Making a difference?"

"Isn't it?" Coulson asks, sounding puzzled.

Clint snorts. "Like any of us can? I don't know if you've noticed, Coulson, but I'm pretty sure we're gonna be completely out of a job by the end of the year."

Coulson shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we'll be needed elsewhere. Regardless, there's a lot to be done, and I aim to do my best to help."

Clint nods, thinking about Fury. He doesn't mention it, because he's not sure what Coulson knows yet, but he feels confident that it'll come out sooner or later, anyway.

"Besides," Coulson says, "looks like you're doing okay."

Clint finally peels himself off Coulson then, leaning back until they're no longer completely pressed together.

"With your new team," Coulson clarifies.

"Not really a team," Clint says awkwardly, even though they sort of are. "It's just me and Tony and Bruce right now. Nobody's heard from Thor for a while, and Cap's not around right now, and I have no clue where Natasha ran off to..."

"You're still a team," Coulson says gently. "You're just a little fractured right now. Just like SHIELD."

Clint snorts, because that's one hell of an understatement. Still, he gets Coulson's point.

Just then, there's a gentle knocking sound, which echoes in the vast room, and Bruce sticks his head through the door without actually looking in their direction. "Hey, uh, there's some people out here looking for Coulson."

Coulson, despite the fact that Bruce's head is politely turned away, scoots closer to Clint again, in an obvious bid to preserve his modesty. "I'll be right out," he says, but his ears are turning red, and part of Clint wants to roll around in glee when he notices.

"I'll let them know," Bruce says, then hesitates. "Clint, you okay?"

The question sounds so innocent, but there's a whole host of implications, there. The way Bruce says Clint's name, the slightly wary tone... There's a lump in Clint's throat again, and it's got very little to do with Coulson this time.

"Yeah," Clint says, eyes still locked on Coulson's. "We're okay."

Bruce seems happy with that answer, and quickly disappears again.

"God, the state of us," Coulson mumbles, looking down at the mess smeared across the front of his shirt when Clint finally gets off his lap.

Clint stretches. "I'm sure it'll come out in the wash. Or just take another dip in the pool. Not like you're gonna be ruining the water for any classes, am I right?"

Coulson gives Clint a _look_ , and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Clint hums as he takes a moment to admire the sight, before taking in the state of his own clothing. Wet patches from water on his thighs, crotch, front, upper arms. Wet patches from _not_ water on his shirt front and crotch. He tries rubbing away some of the jizz stains with the back of his hand so they'll at least be less obvious, but he doesn't have much luck with it.

"You look ridiculous," Coulson remarks with a slight smile, pulling up his pants. They'd avoided the splatters of come entirely, so now that he's down to his undershirt, he actually looks respectable again. Just--wet.

Clint has a retort at the tip of his tongue, but then chokes on the words, because he's here and bantering with Coulson again, and he didn't think that was something that would ever happen again.

"Not like I can do much about it," he eventually settles on.

Coulson smiles serenely at him. "That's not true."

In retrospect, Clint should probably have seen it coming, but he's still surprised when Coulson pushes him backwards into the pool.

When he breaks the surface, sputtering, Coulson's smiling down at him.

"Better?" Coulson asks innocently.

Clint smiles and spits water, and says, "Yeah. Better."

End.


End file.
